starlight, starbright
by the milliner's rook
Summary: AUish. (I think I made you up inside my head.)


Once when she is very young, Elsa meets a winter spirit. A boy with blue fire eyes and a smile so wide that lets her know that he is just like her; touched by ice, kissed by snow. In awe, he asks if she can show him what she can do, and she agrees so easily, so happy to know that she is not alone.

Later, she will try and recall the moment when she realized that he existed in cobwebs and the flicker of candlelight, how he turned translucent in the twilight, and will only remember that she didn't care. He is corporeal to her, this is all that matters.

They are two invisible strangers, hidden by snowfall, protected from the world, and they are united by their cold fingers entwining.

Hand in hand, never shying away from each other, Elsa leads him through the winding corridors, ready to unleash her magic.

* * *

><p>Anna tells her about Jack Frost one day when they are playing together, excitedly detailing his exploits and the mischief he brings when he travels the world. It reminds Elsa of the secret encounter she thought she'd forgotten.<p>

_Jack Frost._

She tests the syllables of his name, likes how easily they roll off her tongue, and wonders if that was the winter spirit's name. By the time she'd thought to ask, it had been too late.

_Jack Frost_, Elsa murmurs to herself, and casts him in snow. She builds him like Anna has described, weaving him a cloak that glitters white. _Jack Frost, I summon thee. _She says again, this time like a chant, and watches her magic unfold, and his cloak grows and grows until it reaches the curtains. Giggling at the sight, Elsa tries to picture what the legends say, what Anna has said with bright eyes and her never ending imagination, _this _Jack Frost nipping at her toes. She smiles.

What would the winter spirit think; she muses, and tries to recreate him in snow, dredging up details she'd long since buried in her dreams. She tries to shape him from her faded memories, perfecting it into something somewhat familiar.

His legs are spindly, and he stands before her tall and playful, with a grin that Elsa is sure it must be his. Something is missing, she knows, her imitation is not nearly accurate enough, and she wishes that he would come visit her.

She wants to brush the snowflakes out his hair, for him to hold her close and lift her in the air, and be happy that they have found someone who does not shiver at their touch.

* * *

><p>There's frost on the window, ice magic that isn't hers. She can tell that it's magic by the trace it leaves behind. Everything about it calls to her as someone else's work: the texture, the shape, the way it feels new and different against the pads of her fingertips. It's strange, shiny, and pretty in a way that hers is not, and Elsa follows the intrinsic curves of the new frost with her hands, the patterns it creates reminding her of flowers she once saw in the garden, their leaves curling towards the sun. She wonders if winter roses could bloom from such pretty remnants of ice magic.<p>

It fades away. Its existence is fleeting, diminishing under her breath. In despair, Elsa watches in despair and jealousy, and her own ice magic, sharp, pointed, spiked, shoots out onto the walls, and she steps back, trembling. There must be a way for her to contain her own magic. There has to be.

The wind is howling. Elsa closes the curtains.

* * *

><p>When she rejects the softness of her heart and knows only hard edges, dangerous, brittle, searing and cold, Elsa creates him in ice. She has forgotten how to make snow soft and white and pure. Instead, everything is bitter and angled and jagged, numb to the touch, icy and harsh.<p>

_Jack_, she names him, the winter spirit that she is half-sure she made up, and likes how much the ice suits him. Ice makes him lean, turns him real, lets the light pass through him seamlessly.

His cheeks are sharp slants, almost wicked when he smiles, and Elsa finds sadness in his illuminated gaze, fear in her reflection. Still he is lacking, and no matter how much she tries, she cannot replicate his carefree kindness, the tentative uncertainty that gave way to joy when she talked to him. Elsa has dreamt of this, of him and his gentleness and more, craving the solace he once freely gave.

This pitiful substitute will have to do.

She reaches out to touch her creation, intending to smooth the rough lines and the statue shatters suddenly. It is too brittle and too fragile to withstand her, and it breaks the last fairy tale that she wished to construct. She cannot believe in him any longer, though part of her still clings to the hollow hope, like shadows on the wall, and slowly but surely, that part of her is dwindling.

The realization that she is heartbreakingly, terrifyingly alone shocks her. She cannot lull old winter ghosts back to her any more than she can control the sea's weather. She can only pray for safe passage and have faith that one day she will not be so afraid.

* * *

><p>Elsa locks the door, suspending her heart like the snowflakes in the air, and she lets the frost stay beneath her eyes.<p>

She has given up on imaginary boys and given in to the heavy, binding weight of her gloves. No more will she listen to the wind's whispers and pretend it is his, drowning out his encouragement and delight by the voices of her parents, the watery echoes of _conceal don't feel_ silencing every positive thought she has ever had about her magic.

The knocking fades eventually, and Elsa loses herself to the blizzard that brews within, mired in grief and rage and isolation. She cannot control it, no matter how much she practices her restraint, _something _always seeps through, streaks of ice inflicting damage whether she wants to or not.

She freezes the air she breathes, so she grits her teeth and holds her breath, begging to any being more powerful than her to make it stop, to take her powers away from her. Under her eyelids, Elsa can still see the gleam of magic that isn't hers, the gorgeous ice-like ferns that twists around her and lingers beneath her own ice marks. The more she tries to rid herself of it, the more it grows, mocking her in its beauty, and Elsa has spent days willing herself to calm down, when she recognises the intent that it means to comfort her. She flinches, counting down the seconds when she can relax, wondering when it will appear next.

It becomes too much in the end, and Elsa shuts out the world.

* * *

><p>It happens like it always happens, against her will and in the snap of cold air. The fortress of ice that she has walled around her terrified heartbeat is laid bare for the sister she loves most.<p>

Elsa flees, tired of pretending to be dutiful and perfect, and forges herself anew.

She builds herself a crystal castle and crafts Jack Frost in moonlight, paints him with ice and silver, and he is beautiful and terrible and lovely and at last she is free to do anything, anything at all, but find her kindred winter spirit that stumbled in with the northern wind once so long ago.

It doesn't matter, she decides, casting spell after spell, elation and liberation the same feeling in the moment, and lets go of him. She lets go of everything.

_I am a queen._

* * *

><p><em>I am the snow queen.<em>

* * *

><p>Somehow she can never recreate the pretty fern frost that spiralled haphazardly around her feet in her old room. She doesn't mind so much, though she tries again, and wishes that it didn't look so out of place and imperfect in its jaggedness compared to the sleek walls that she has raised with a flick of the wrist. Her magic feels different, no longer cautious or sad, and fits her like a well-worn coat, soothing and comfortable. Often she dances on the pristine white floor, able to create snow that is soft and pure, alternate it with ice, clear-cut and brilliant, and each time the results are exhilarating because she never knows what to expect.<p>

It makes her laugh and smile and grin. It's a game, and she hasn't played games for such a long time.

And then she catches sight of the true fern frost that she has admired and feared in equal measure, and this time she knows what to do, the bare palms of her hands brushing the patterns on the wall, embracing the familiarity of it.

_It's you, isn't it?_ Elsa asks, quiet, and she catches it; the air stilling, trembling beside her. _Jack Frost?_

She almost sees him in the ice that she has fashioned as her sword and shield, her heart and soul, the reflection of a boy that she dreamed about once and thought him something she made up, someone to make her feel less lonely.

_Is that your name? _She tilts her head up and glances around for a sign, a face, a word inscribed on the wall, anything that she can take as his answer.

_Yes._ Prettily, the frost spells out the word in the floor, slanted and messy. Elsa grins, nearly daring to believe in him again. She recognises the magic from the windowpanes of Arendelle, behind the door where she locked her heart and watched the ice patterns on the floor unfurl; confused at the magic that wasn't hers.

All this time, it was him.

_Jack,_ Elsa murmurs, and sees the ghostlike light of phoenix blue eyes, the faint curve of wry smirk reflected in the ice she has made, and her heart beats faster like snow falling. She's almost there, he's within her reach. _Jack Frost!_

_I'm here, Elsa._

_Then why,_ she asks, hand outstretched for someone she can hear, and she fumbles for words, hoping that he takes her hand, a familiar coolness sweeping through her skin when he does,_ why can't I see you?_

If he has an answer, it's lost in the winter breeze.

* * *

><p>"I wish I may, I wish I might."<p>

It takes a month to settle back in Arendelle, for Elsa to feel like a sister again, to get to know and be friends with Anna, slowly accepting Kristoff's presence and watch them be in love, and become comfortable in her skin as an enchantress of ice and accept that she is loved by her people.

She learns to sense Jack Frost and see his shadow on the walls, a breath away from mischief, always with a wry remark that makes her laugh and lose her composure. She writes messages on the ceiling, on the backs of furniture, secret messages relayed back and forth between them, another secret of theirs, scrawled across the castle walls, preferring her distinctly angular snowflakes to his gracefully meandering icicles, but then, he comments teasingly, she would.

It's a dance, she thinks to herself, just like before, except now the rules are different and neither of them know how to proceed, and yet they take the time to enjoy themselves all the same.

And then one night Elsa closes her eyes and wishes on a falling star. She wishes on the light of the moon and wishes for Jack Frost.

Holding her breath, suddenly the air is cold.

"Elsa." Jack Frost says her name with reverence, loud and clear, standing behind her. The world stops spinning as Elsa turns to face him, his head cocked to the side with a familiar impish smile. "Hey."

He is baptized in starlight, crowned by ice, and cold in Elsa's embrace, but she has never minded that aspect about him, and clings to him, refusing to let go. Her nails dig into his ivory skin before she buries her head under the curve of his jaw, never realizing how much she longed for this, for him to be real again, pressing herself against him as she feels his arms slide around her, his cold hands curling at the nape of her neck, clinging onto just as tightly.

"You see me." He breathes, just as she sobs, "I missed you."

She draws back, blinking away the tears that threaten to fall, and he smiles at her sweetly, snowflakes forming on her lashes, and at last Elsa is able to return his smile, happy that she can see him again.

_I'm sorry,_ she wants to say, _I couldn't believe in you after what I did. Not when I hurt Anna._ He looks at her like he understands, like he forgives her, content that she came to terms with everything herself in order to make this meeting possible.

_It's alright._ She hears his words as he holds her, hands relaxed on her shoulders, and she's never felt so at ease before.

Jack Frost is the same as she remembers, quicksilver, moon-struck, and pretty like his magic, but Elsa is no longer the starry-eyed girl who met him as a nameless winter spirit and became afraid of her powers. She is a snow queen, the thought sends her pulse racing.

"Jack," Elsa grins, giddy and excited and bright-eyed, hoarfrost spreading from her palms into the fabric of his clothes. She finds she likes the sight of his hands laced with hers, his skin adorned by the magic she creates, idly hoping that one day he might do the same. Nearly missing a pink blush dust over the bridge of his nose, she catches it when she returns his gaze and tugs him towards the corridor they once walked together, and remembers their first conversation. "Let me show you what I can do now."


End file.
